


The difference between holding and gripping

by detectivejigsaw



Series: Old Man Angst [13]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Both boys need to be hugged, Boys getting to know each other all over again, Defeating toxic masculinity, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ford having PTSD issues, Gen, Hugging, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Platonic Bed-sharing, Platonic Cuddling, Sea Grunks, Stan Pines Has Low Self-Esteem, Stan being a martyr, both of them being stubborn, whether they admit it or not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:34:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26922199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detectivejigsaw/pseuds/detectivejigsaw
Summary: A short little drabble about the sea grunks having to get to know each other all over again.  Also about them relearning how to open their hearts to each other-and more importantly, to let each other in.
Relationships: Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Series: Old Man Angst [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1433122
Comments: 21
Kudos: 119





	The difference between holding and gripping

It had been a few weeks since the _Stan O’War II_ set sail, and the two old men aboard were still getting used to each other.

Because as much as they both hated to admit it, though many aspects of their personalities were the same as they remembered from childhood, there were plenty of changes in both of them that they had to get used to.

For instance, Ford wasn’t the soft, wimpy nerd he used to be. Oh, he’d always been a lot tougher than even he realized, but now it actually _showed_. He was more than capable of taking down sea monsters three times his size, he had the agility and strength of a tiger, and-well, he still had the emotional maturity of a teenage girl, but going through Weirdmageddon seemed to have mellowed him out quite a bit.

He could go for a lot longer without eating or sleeping, too (though Stan made sure he didn’t do that too often; he even resorted to hiding the coffee after sundown), and had to be reminded of the importance of personal hygiene when they were going out in public. The biggest change of all, the one Stan was most proud of, was how _confident_ Ford had become about his unique hands. He didn’t spend all his time hiding them in his pockets anymore; he just let them swing at his sides as he walked, and if he noticed people staring at them, he’d just stare back until they got embarrassed and looked away.

On the down side, while he was okay with small groups of people, in big ones he started getting twitchy, and looked ready to start shooting if there was a sign of anyone giving them unfriendly stares. He usually didn’t, thank heaven, but there was at least one instance where Stan had to bribe a restaurant manager into silence when his bright yellow fluorescent sign got blasted into oblivion because Ford had seen it out of the corner of his eye.

He’d told Stan about Bill, what that monster had done to him and a little about what he’d had to endure out in the multiverse, and it broke Stan’s heart that he hadn’t been able to save him from all of it sooner. But, while he couldn’t protect him from what had happened in the past, he could at least do what he could to make his future more pleasant.

* * *

Ford noticed before long that Stan was, in some respects, more... _deferential_ than he used to be.

Not to say that he wasn’t still the stubborn knucklehead he remembered, of course; but he was more willing to make concessions about certain things. He’d make himself scarce when Ford was doing important research, and just go up on deck to fish, or watch the clouds, or cook, or basically anything that was quiet and would not interrupt him.

He’d go out of his way to handle chores, even though Ford tried to insist that he had no problem with pulling his own weight; Stan would just say something along the lines of “Don’t worry about it, Sixer, you’re gonna get lost in your work and forget, so it’s faster if I just do it, kay?”

And while that might have been kind of true on several occasions, that wasn’t the point! Stan was his brother, not his servant, he should be cuffing him over the head and reminding him that it was his turn to do the dishes or whatever!

As if that wasn’t frustrating enough, Stan seemed to have developed an allergy to asking for help. Ford didn’t notice it at first, since they were both relatively capable adults who had spent most of their lives being independent, so he wasn’t disturbed when Stan treated his own injuries from burning his hand on the stove or slicing his thumb on a fishhook and brushed off Ford’s offers of assistance with an “It’s okay, I got it”-a little concerned, maybe, but accepting that Stan would probably tell him if he needed help with something serious.

No, what clued him in was the nightmares.

Living in the multiverse had done wonders for making Ford a light sleeper; this meant that the first night he heard his twin wake up with a gasp, he was awake in seconds himself.

For a second he could just hear Stan’s heavy breathing, as he audibly tried to pull himself together; then there was the shuffling of him shoving his feet into his fluffy slippers, and the rustle of a blanket being wrapped around his shoulders, before he got to his feet and tiptoed his way out of their room.

Ford sat up enough to peer through one of the windows, and saw that his brother was just leaning against the railing of the boat, watching the waves going up and down; after a few minutes he shook himself, and then turned to head back inside. Ford barely had time to lie down and pretend to be asleep before Stan returned and climbed back into bed. He thought about asking if Stan was okay, but within a few minutes he was peacefully snoring away, so Ford just shrugged and tried to do the same.

Every so often Stan would have another nightmare, and would just go outside without bothering to try to wake Ford.

He tried to dismiss it, reminding himself that plenty of his own dreams were less than pleasant and he didn’t like to talk about them, and that part of having a healthy relationship was knowing when to respect one another’s privacy.

But one night, when Stan woke up _crying_ , and after a minute of sitting up he _still_ didn’t try to call out to Ford or anything, just went, still sniffling, out to the deck to deal with this alone...the older twin decided that enough was enough.

* * *

Without a second thought he got up from his bunk and made his way outside, barely remembering to pull on his own slippers before stepping onto the deck.

Sure enough, Stan was leaning on the prow of the boat, hugging himself and (he could tell even from the back) using the heel of his hand to rub his eyes.

Ford cleared his throat.

Stan instantly whirled around and shoved his hands into his pockets; they came out covered in metal (Seriously? He actually slept with his brass knuckles? ...Well, considering how often Ford kept a gun under his pillow he probably had no room to criticize). When he saw who it was, though, Stan swallowed self-consciously and lowered his fists.

“...Whatcha doin’ up, Sixer?” He moved the knuckles back into his pockets and leaned against the railing; most likely he was hoping that the dim lighting would prevent Ford from noticing the dampness on his face, or hearing the extra levels of gruffness in his voice.

Ford came closer. “What’s the matter with you, Stanley?”

“Huh? Nothin’! I just-couldn’t sleep, that’s all. You know what that’s like.” He smiled one of his wide Mr. Mystery smiles.

Ford folded his arms. “You know you can tell me if you need something, right? Or if something’s wrong?”

A muscle twitched in his twin’s cheek, but he shrugged. “I don’t need anything; I’m fine.”

Ford wanted to point out how patently ludicrous of a claim that was, with all the backup evidence at his disposal-but a voice in the back of his head pointed out that taking that kind of attitude might just make his brother get more defensive and get them nowhere fast. So instead he decided to try something radical.

He stepped a little closer...and held out his arms.

Stan gave him a long, nonplussed blink. “Uh…”

Ford just tilted his head and beckoned with the tips of his fingers.

Stan adjusted his glasses and frowned at him searchingly, like he thought he was holding out some kind of large, invisible object for him to study.

“I can stand here all night if I have to.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “You’ve been spendin’ too much time with Mabel,” he muttered. But at last he shuffled forward, still looking tentative even as he allowed himself to be pulled into Ford’s arms.

Despite his twin’s reluctance to acquiesce, Ford could tell that this had been the right call; he could feel Stan trembling against him, and that it began to calm down as he cupped the back of his head with one hand while the other curled around his back.

“I know you’ve been having nightmares,” he whispered after a minute.

Stan immediately stiffened, and Ford tightened his hold so he wouldn’t try to escape. “I’m not judging, I just want to know why you haven’t said anything.”

“Do you tell me about _your_ nightmares?” Stan asked his shoulder.

“...” Fair point.

“And you got more important stuff ta deal with than my brain screwing me over.”

Ford sighed. Of course. “Do we need to call the kids again and have them remind you that your feelings are important?”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“Not where they are.” He snickered at the annoyed sound his brother made, and then sighed again. “Stan...I don’t want you to feel like you can’t ask for help when it comes to things like this.”

His brother grumbled uncomfortably.

“If you can’t ask for help with the little things, how will you be able to ask for it about the big things?” He wasn’t even sure what would constitute as “big” compared to nightmares and minor injuries, but he was sure he’d know it if he saw it.

Stan leaned his head on his shoulder. “I don’t wanna worry you.”

“I _am_ worried. Hiding the fact that you’re in pain from me is not a good strategy for making me _not_ worry.”

“Mmm.”

He didn’t speak, but Ford could guess what he was thinking: ‘Sorry, but that’s still kinda new for me.’ He tightened his hold a little.

“Will you make a de-a _bargain_ with me, Stanley? If you’ll promise to let me help you when you have a nightmare or you’re injured or something, then I’ll promise to do the reverse.”

Stan hummed thoughtfully, and pulled back enough to see his face. Finally he shrugged. “Dunno how you can help with the nightmares, but okay.” He held up both hands, spread wide; Ford realized it was to show that his fingers were uncrossed. He smiled and held up his hands in the same fashion, before lowering his arms and taking Stan’s wrist.

“I have a possible solution for the nightmares-or at least a balm for them.” He led Stan towards the stairs.

“Uh-what’re ya doing? If you’re gonna do some kinda voodoo on my brain I don’t think I wanna-”

“No, something far more primitive, but I hope it will be effective regardless.”

Once they were back in their room, Ford examined their beds with a critical eye.

Both of them were somewhat small, but there should be enough room…

“Wanna clue me in?” Stan asked with a yawn.

“Go lie down. On your side.”

Stan raised an eyebrow at him, but he obeyed.

“Does it matter which side?” he asked dryly. “Will facing one direction create some kinda healing ritual ta drive away the evil spirits or whatev-Ford, what the heck?!”

Ford, once Stan was lying down facing him, had pulled back the blankets enough for him to climb into the bed with his brother.

“Don’t make it weird,” he admonished. “It’s not like we’ve never done this before.”

“Yeah, when we were like _ten_! In case ya haven’t noticed, we’ve both grown up a lot since then! And your feet are cold!”

Ford ignored his protests; he knew if Stan had had any real objections he’d probably already be on the floor. Instead he just wrapped an arm over Stan’s shoulders and tugged him in against his chest. After a second Stan grumbled, and then wound his arms around Ford’s stomach.

“Tell the kids about this and I’ll poison your coffee,” he muttered.

Ford laughed quietly, and squeezed him a little. “Goodnight, Stanley.”

“Shut up and go ta sleep.”

* * *

The next day, Stan allowed Ford to cook breakfast instead of racing to do it himself so Ford could get started right away on studying the two-headed watersnake they’d caught earlier this week. And Ford ended up telling Stan a story about how he’d been to a dimension where the mice and rats were natural predators of snakes, and made him laugh with a drawing of a chase scene he’d witnessed.

...It was definitely a good start.


End file.
